


Unexpected

by kewkewkachew



Category: Mass Effect, Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Drinking, F/M, Illium (Mass Effect), Implied/Referenced Suicide, Museums, Post-Mass Effect 2: Arrival, Shore Leave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 14:25:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13719591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kewkewkachew/pseuds/kewkewkachew
Summary: The ME2 squad spends some downtime on Illium, courtesy of Liara T'Soni. While on their shore leave, Shepard discovers a surprising side to the gruff mercenary named Zaeed Massani.





	1. Nightcap

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlackjackKent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackjackKent/gifts).



> This chapter takes place immediately after the events of the Arrival DLC. Thanks to my awesome beta, rennart for all her help and support!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After stopping the Reaper invasion and the inevitable destruction of the Bahak system, Shepard has a hard time sleeping. Fortunately, a squadmate is there with the right amount of booze and, maybe, the right words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for the Arrival DLC. Special thanks to my awesome beta rennart for her advice and support!

Shepard sighed, appreciating the coolness of the shower wall against her heated forehead as she allowed the scalding hot water to pour over her aching muscles. Admiral Hackett had not left an hour ago and yet the weight of his words clung to her like a film. The Alliance would make her their scape goat after all. That massive number was burned into her eyelids, flashing in red whenever she closed them: 304,942. Three hundred and four thousand, nine hundred and forty-two batarians, an entire system, permanently wiped from the galaxy: Children, sickly and/or elderly citizens, pregnant women... Every last one of them gone, vaporized, and she hadn't even gotten to warn them.

The injuries were healing as usual thanks to Cerberus' tech and Dr. Chakwas' prompt attention, but that didn't make the process hurt any less. A burning sensation spread through her tawny brown skin in every direction, torn and bruised muscle fibers working overtime to knit her body back together. _Fucking Hackett... He should be the one hanging for this,_ she thought as she shut off the water and toweled off. Kenson had been his friend. This had been his request. She wasn't even technically part of the Alliance anymore. She was a Spectre and, therefore, not under their jurisdiction. But the batarians needed someone to blame for their 304,942 dead loved ones; they thirsted for blood and would get it one way or another. The threat of another Skyllian Blitz happening made running no longer an option, not with the threat of Reapers on the horizon. Then again, there was always a chance they would all die on this so-called suicide mission to the Collector base, and so worrying about standing trial might be pointless.

Steam floated in thick, curling plumes from the floor as she stepped out of the bathroom, bare feet padding on the chilly metal flooring as she reached for a pair of clean clothes to put on. Pure adrenaline still buzzed through her veins, vibrating beneath her skin. There was no way she'd be able to fall asleep now. Now dressed in a pair of joggers and a large t-shirt, she decided to head down to the mess hall for a drink. Being that Kasumi was likely asleep in the Port Observation where the bar was, a non-alcoholic drink would have to do.

Night cycles rendered the SR-2's mess hall to a dim cabin, with the warm glow of tread lights serving as most of its illumination. The Normandy's drive core hummed through the ringing silence. Peace at last.

Or so she thought.

“Can't sleep?” a lilting voice like gravel asked.

Shepard squeezed her eyes shut for a second, disappointed her moment of solitude had ended so quickly, sighed and turned back to Zaeed. The med bay's lighting, filtered through thin shutters, outlined his form. He tilted his glass back, drinking its contents.

“No,” she replied, stooping down to retrieve a can of soda from the fridge. Her eyes squinted under the searing white light. “Came down for a drink, but Kasumi's hogging all the gin.” She held up the can in defeat. “So this'll have to do.”

“So, I take it you're not the one to blame for storing away all the goddamn liquor on the goddamn ship in a quote, unquote 'safe place'?”

The can popped open with a hiss.

“Hell no.” She took a sip, gulped it, felt the fizzy liquid slither and burn down her throat. She didn't even like this brand. “My stash got depleted before I left for B...” Bahak. There went that number again, in big bold letters: 304,942. Her jaw stiffened. “Uh... Anyhow, I gotta stop somewhere to restock.”

Peeking up from her drink, she spotted him regarding her with what seemed to be deliberation. Then, he added:

“Hell, Shepard. You've had yourself a shitty day.”

 _Now isn't_ that _the understatement of the year?_

After downing the rest of his drink, he pulled out a flask and poured some of the amber liquid into the glass.

“So, just this once... Here. On me,” he said, sliding the glass toward her.

“Gee, thanks,” she droned, nostrils flared. Drinking out of the same glass as someone else had little appeal to her. For a moment she considered refusing, but the lure of a mind-numbing buzz was too strong. Wrapping her lips around the rim of the glass, she shot back what she discovered was a smoky, barrel-aged scotch. Its woody aroma spread throughout her tongue with sweet notes of honey, toffee, and orange marmalade before sliding down her throat and coating her stomach in warmth. “Nice.”

“Got that on my last trip to Illium. Mount Milgrom. Fine stuff, if you got a taste for it.”

One of the first things she'd noticed about Zaeed upon meeting him—other than his scarred, poorly-reconstructed half of his face—was that he often spoke in paragraphs, waxing nostalgic about war escapades, his impressive kill record, and other shenanigans from his days as a young mercenary. Therefore, the relative silence between them was unsettling, like the time between pulling a pin on a grenade and its subsequent explosion, as if at any time, at any moment, there would be—

“—Honestly, if I—“

Shepard nearly jumped from her seat at the sudden break in her thoughts. Zaeed merely regarded her with shifty concern before continuing.

“If I'da been in your shoes, I'da done the same goddamn thing. It's a shame what happened there, all them batarian sons of bitches, but there was no other way. If you ask me, you did the right thing.”

She lowered her gaze to the inside of the glass, watching the faint outline of her reflection sitting on the rippling surface of the scotch.

“I know...”

“A couple hundred thousand people in exchange for trillions... It ain't always what's fair, but that's what it takes.”

 _Ruthless calculus_ , Garrus had called it. Leaning forward on her elbows, she held the cold glass to her forehead, relishing in the refreshing contrast to the heat of her skin, and gave Zaeed a weary, half-lidded smile.

“And, what? You took an entire station of trained soldiers, mechs, and a reaper down on your own. And all you got away with was a few scratches. I coulda used a crazy bitch like you ten years ago when we dropped in blind on the krogan DMZ. Took out a lotta krogan that day, but we lost too many men.” The undamaged corner of his mouth tilted up in a smirk. “Anyway, I'd say you're all right, Shepard.”

She ran her free hand over her short black hair and sighed, noting the loosened tension in her jaw. He may have been a ruthless old man, but the bastard knew how to spin a tale and distract a person.

“Anyway, I should let you go,” he said, standing from his seat with a pained groan. “We'll talk more later, Shepard.”

“Good night, Zaeed.”

She caught him waving on his way back to the elevator.

“Oh, and we should go to Illium,” he called out. “I'm outta scotch.”

“Good night, Zaeed.”


	2. Aged Scotch and French Girls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liara's odd shore leave gift leads Shepard to make a surprising discovery about Zaeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my awesome beta, rennart for all her help and support!
> 
> Warning: This briefly references an artist's death and the suicide of his fiancée. Just so no one is caught off-guard.

Watching the crew arrive on Illium was akin to observing a bunch of wide-eyed children enter a confectionery: gawking at the bright lights, marveling at the (eye)candy, faces lit up with awe at the splendor of it all. The faint murmur of ads echoed in the background, swallowed by the droning chatter of vendors and their customers. Being friends with the Shadow Broker had its perks: the finest accommodations credits could buy, the best service a celebrity could get, and free entertainment! Liara sure had gone out of her way for the squad members; however, looking at the museum tickets in her hand, Shepard almost started to wish she hadn't. Her stomach sank: All-access passes to The Nos Astra Museum of Art History. That was nice... for someone who wasn't Shepard. All she'd wanted to do was restock on some booze, perhaps a few mods, pick up some fish to replace the dead ones currently floating in her tank, maybe some shoes...

Garrus, Jack, Grunt and Jacob excused themselves almost immediately, with Garrus and Jack in favor of going to the bar, Grunt and Jacob seeking some sort of arcade. To her surprise, the rest of the crew seemed keen on going to the NAMAH, except maybe Zaeed. By the heavy-lidded look of boredom he wore, Shepard guessed he wasn't impressed. Then again, he always looked like that: pursed, wrinkled lips, slight furrowed brows. Maybe that was just his face.

“An asari opera is set to play in an hour,” Miranda pointed out, glancing at the time.

“I _love_ musicals,” Tali chimed in.

“Art important: performance art, visual art. Soul of any sentient society. Have performed in musicals. Homage to human theater arts.” Because _of course_ Mordin had.

While the majority decided to attend the play, Kasumi, Thane and, surprisingly, Zaeed stayed behind.

The Tasale sunlight spilled in through the massive skylights, splashing against sparse white walls, and pouring over the patrons roaming about the slate grey flooring. The further the squad wandered into the museum, the more ridiculous the passersby's conversations became.

“Oh, I do love Forta. I do,” said an asari matron, her arm locked with that of a salarian's. “But his work has just gotten more mainstream. It just doesn't give me chills like it used to, you know?”

“Indeed,” replied the salarian. “Did you know that Selita didn't know _who_ Forta was? I was talking about his latest piece and she asks: _Forta?_ Does he do surrealism, or dadaism?” Their airy, stuffy laughter didn't carry, fortunately, and their voices began to fade once they'd passed Shepard. “So, I say: Selita, was your father a krogan, or do you live in a cave?”

When she looked again, she noticed Thane was missing. _Not surprising_ , she thought, as he often vanished like the morning fog. It was possible he'd gone to see the hanar poetry exhibit in the west wing. Or, wherever it was.

Shepard looked around.

And... she was lost.

She'd been so busy with her own thoughts that her body had entered into autopilot mode. _Ugh, I should have joined Jack at the bar._ Instead of roaming the vast building in search for her friends, she chose to take a seat on one of the benches in the middle of a hallway, her head slinking backwards in exhaustion. Crowded places tended to drain her, and this place was no exception. Oh, the things she did to keep her squad happy.

“Shepard!” called a throaty, feminine voice. Kasumi waved her arms to get her attention. It worked. “Over here. They have a Terran exhibit!”

As much as her muscle fibers complained and begged her to stay, the thief's enthusiasm was hard to bat away. Besides, maybe she'd see something she'd actually recognize, something from her old days back on Earth; not that she'd ever been wealthy enough to go to one. Shepard stood with a grunt to follow her, hands tucked away in the pockets of her jeans.

To her surprise, the Terran exhibit was larger than she had imagined. The first hall consisted of ancient Sumerian, Chinese and Greek pottery, with faded archaic figures lacquered onto their surfaces. Just ahead, wooden Yoruba and Fang masks lined the walls. The starry twinkle in Kasumi's eyes did not go unnoticed; in fact, it made Shepard's stomach sink low into her gut.

“Don't even think about it.”

“Why, Shepard, I'm hurt you'd even think I'd do such a thing.”

“Good. Don't.”

The next few room contained a few renaissance pieces and some Japanese Ukiyo-e paintings. The one after, some baroque stuff she had no interest in seeing. It wasn't so much that she didn't like art; she simply didn't understand it. It was nice to look at, but to form speculations as to what the artist was feeling, or what each and every brushstroke and color represented? No, she'd rather look at something pretty in silence.

And then she came upon the 20th century paintings: A complete departure from the realist, shades-of-peach-and-brown, dead-eyed portraits so common to Terran artists from earlier centuries. Loud splashes of bright color decorated massive canvases, bold brushstrokes outlining warped faces. It almost looked like an emotionally disturbed toddler drew them.

Shepard scoffed at a particularly large painting, covered in various shades of black, gray, and white: _Guernica_ , was its title. More like a nightmare, than a pretty painting.

“C'mon. Even I could do this.”

“Yeah, people said that back then, too,” Kasumi remarked, her form shimmering back into view. “It's about a bombing, you know. Fighting against the establishment, and all that.”

Nodding silently after a moment of consideration, she moved on. More weird art. Portraits of people looked more distorted, stretched to resemble the masks they'd seen earlier. Her question, though, was _why?_ The artist seemed like they had a concept of the human form, so why make them so grotesque? And then she saw Zaeed, considering one particularly contorted portrait of a woman, looking as if she'd been stretched like a sweater and dried that way, his good eye narrowed in what she deemed to be deep thought.

“You into this?” she asked, immediately cursing the almost judgmental tone she'd taken.

“This one's different from all the others,” he mused. If he'd heard snark in her question, he made no efforts to show he did. “All his other stuff, the eyes are dead and empty... like a person who's seen too much, or has given up.” Shepard would have asked what the hell he was talking about if he hadn't pointed to another painting, similar in style, but with the aforementioned dead eyes: much like the milky corneas of a corpse. Now it all made sense. The previous model had eyes that could pierce through one's soul, lively dark eyes that flashed with a knowing smile. “No, see... I think he had a thing for this girl.”

“Very nice,” Kasumi said, and Shepard nearly screamed when she materialized next to her.

“You've _got_ to stop doing that.”

The thief grinned in response.

“That's Jeanne Hébuterne, Modigliani's muse, lover, and fiancée. Star crossed lovers. When he died of TB, she was eight months pregnant with their second child. Threw herself out of a fifth story window two days later. Tragic, really.” The silence that ensued Kasumi's poorly-timed explanation made Shepard fidget, shifting her weight onto a different leg every few seconds, rubbing the back of her neck and her upper arms. _Dammit, Kasumi_.

“This isn't fun anymore,” Zaeed remarked. He turned on his heel and walked toward the gift shop, pointing out that whomever decided to put the exit there was an evil son of a bitch.

* * *

 

 

Shepard hovered the tip of her finger over the intercom. Should she ring, or should she go home? The crisp, brown paper bag crunched under her clutch. The digital display on her omnitool read 5:45 pm. One could only hope Zaeed wasn't the type to pass out early in the day. _He did say “Mount Milgrom” brand, right?_  It took all the courage she'd had on Torfan just to press it. Fortunately for her, though, Zaeed was quick to answer. His eyebrows were furrowed in curiosity, mouth open in an unuttered question, and a black smudge on his cheek. Before she could speak, she fixated on the stain. For a minute she thought it was gun cleaning oil, but it lacked its gloss and tacky texture.

“Oh, uh... I found some of that scotch you like.”

As expected, he took it, studied it for what seemed like years, and grunted in approval.

“Kind of you,” he murmured, eyes still on the bottle. “For future reference: I drink the 45, not the 25.”

Shepard all but snatched it back. Damn. He was right: The label read XXV instead of _XLV_.

“Stop standing out there and close the goddamn door already.”

The suite looked a lot like hers: spacious and modern, though he'd taken the liberty of moving the couches around to clear a space in the middle of the living room. Some chairs had been pushed to a corner and stacked, disregarding their delicate leather details. Then again, Cerberus would be the one paying for trashing the room, so Shepard decided against chiding him for his carelessness.

Sweeping her gaze over the rest of the room, she found a canvas smeared with thick strokes of dark paint: black, grays, blues, whites, even some violets and dulled down yellows. And that was when she understood why he'd moved the furniture. The floor-to-ceiling window before the canvas overlooked a particularly busy part of Illium; buildings scraping into the smoggy skyline like twinkling razors, the sparkle of skycars glittering like the cheapest imitation of stars. The violent upward brushstrokes represented the razor-like skyline.

“I would've never taken you for the artistic type, Zaeed.”

The man had been pouring himself some scotch in a glass, another glass already full—for her, she assumed.

“I'm not,” he replied, then took a sip. “I just like what I like.”

As she expected, the other had been for her consumption; he walked over and handed it to her before returning to his seat at the stool. He flared a nostril, peeked at the skyline he'd been studying, then back at the canvas, and shrugged. By the manner he placed the painting aside, she assumed he was done with it. Meanwhile, she'd chosen to take a seat at the relatively uncluttered couch on the side of the room, legs crossed.

He explained he liked to delve in different media whenever the mood struck him. Sometimes he'd paint landscapes, or cityscapes as he'd just done; occasionally he used models to pose, preferably those who could contort themselves in awkward positions—usually asari dancers. It added a certain macabre quality, according to him. When she'd asked whether she could see his work sometime, he vaguely pointed to a journal across the room.

Twisted facial expressions filled each page, some with pain, others with anger, laughter... pleasure, maybe. Had he slept with some of his subjects? The ones with pleasure, as distorted and unrealistic as they seemed, had a sense of genuineness. She had to wonder whether he'd caused them that pleasure... Before she could stop herself, she asked:

“Ever painted a human?” Damn it.

The cold expression behind his mismatched eyes heated with a spark of... she wasn't sure. Zaeed was a man difficult to read.

“Yeah. Why?” Then a pause. A long, uncomfortable pause. Why wasn't he saying anything? Why wasn't she? “You want me to paint you like one of my asari girls?” he laughed. “I'm sure that's the scene of some shitty old movie somewhere.”

She laughed at the notion right along with him. But part of her wondered: Would that be so bad? No, that had to be the scotch speaking, that liquid fire seeping through her veins and melting away her inhibitions. Her ankle bobbed up and down from its crossed position, a gesture she'd been told she did whenever she was lost in her own thoughts. They'd be going through that relay in just a few days with no certainty of returning alive.

And Zaeed...

Well, she'd been watching him for a while, frequenting his sleeping quarters in the Starboard Cargo Area for late night chats, listening to his wild tales of his days as one of the founders of The Blue Suns and a young mercenary. He was rough around the edges but real; he was... raw. And, while she appreciated the rest of the crewmates, there was just something about Zaeed, the man who no longer owed her anything, the mercenary who stuck around for the credits he might never even get to see.

“Yeah,” Shepard said. “What if I do?”

Zaeed looked up from his glass, a pair of mismatched eyes revealing no emotions, no intentions; they merely watched her, likely to see if she'd falter.

She didn't.

So he shrugged again.

“I'll set up, then,” was his reply, and she left for the bathroom.

The hotel's complimentary robes were a godsend. As self-assured as Shepard was, she wasn't one to simply prance around in the nude. Besides... Perhaps Zaeed wasn't interested in that way. He could just simply want to sketch a quick portrait of her.

—Wait, did she want more than that? As the soft material slipped over her bare skin she felt the answer shift more and more toward yes. She ran her fingers through her jet black pixie cut hair, checked her face for any stray crumbs of dinner and placed her hand on the doorknob, hesitation beginning to chill her blood.

_Whatever happens, happens..._

The floor arrangement looked different when she padded back into the living room: a chaise lounge now sat before the skyline view, the city lights illuminating it like a halo. Maybe that's how she would look. Zaeed barely glanced up at her while he prepared his new color palette: reds and blacks and browns and blues—colors to reflect her every scar, every freckle, every bruise she had. Part of it made her feel sick and anxious. Part of it made heat pool between her thighs.

“Where do you want me?” she asked, beginning to untie her robe, loving the cool satin fabric sliding over her naked skin. It made her feel... sexy and powerful.

“On that couch,” he stated. “Arms above your head and over the arm rest, and your back against it. Your face, hips and legs tilted toward me, top knee pointed right at me.”

 _All right. We're doing this. You've fought a thresher maw on foot; you can let him stare at you naked for a few minutes_.

Shepard turned her back toward him, let the white satin robe slither down her arms and to her feet. A shock of cool air sent goosebumps over her skin, though some of that, she decided, was excitement. Maybe she was an exhibitionist, of sorts. She was no stranger to being naked in front of others; changing between missions and decontamination often called for it. But this... This was different and sensual and _were his blue eyes darker than they were before?_

She adjusted herself to his instructions, arms over head, hips and head tilted, making sure to keep a cocky smirk on her face.

“Comfy, Shepard?” he asked as he sketched a quick outline.

“Mmm. Very,” she purred.

Each brushstroke whispered against the canvas, fleshing out Zaeed's idea of her, sparking her curiosity: just how did he see her? As a grotesque murderer, as many thought of her? As someone who couldn't escape her past? As some fierce goddess of war? Or, perhaps, judging by the way he licked his lips with hunger... as desirable and sexual?

“Ah-ah. Don't move.”

She hadn't even noticed she'd been rubbing her thighs together. Full lips uttered a soft apology and she fixed her position to the one he stated before. But that question still floated in her mind: Would he want her? Did he want her now? Because, damn it, now that she'd been thinking about it, she was soaking wet and wanting his rough hands all over her body and his mouth grunting dirty things in her ear. But would showing that cross the line? Would that be taking advantage of their desperation and lowered inhibitions and expectation of death?

“There. Not really done, but I can do the shading and whatnot later.”

Shepard blinked.

“Really?”

She stood up, rolled the kinks out of her shoulder—that position had been more uncomfortable than she'd thought—slipped the robe back on and padded over to see what he'd accomplished in just 30 minutes. And there she was: her body sprawled out in an elongated, stylized form—much like the Modigliani paintings they'd seen at the NAMAH. Random splotches of color covered her body, colors she'd never associated with human skintones but, together, they somehow reflected the warm undertones of her flesh, even the subtle freckles covering it. A halo of cold bright lights surrounded her and kissed and licked every curve of her body, in contrast to the deep shadows below.

“Wow... This is...” Shepard was speechless, heart racing as she stood next to him. Their eyes met. Time stopped. She was suddenly aware of every breath he took, every blink of his ash brown lashes, the gaping darkness in his pupils threatening to swallow her whole, the slight drafts reminding her she hadn't bothered to close the robe. And now his hands were on the backs of her knees, as if he'd been watching her like a predator and knew, _he fucking knew_ they were a weak spot for her, and now they were climbing, crawling, satin bunching up over his hands while he asked her without a single word: _Do you want this?_

She licked her lips again.

 _Yes_ , was her silent answer.

Those abrasive hands kept trailing up the back of her thighs, bringing her closer, lips on her abdomen, alabaster on dark amber, her fingers in his hair, his tongue on her navel and breath over the patch of thick hair of her sex. He grabbed her ass and she felt her self-control shatter. _God, yes. Please. All of it. Everything._

Now he towered over her, looking down at her with that hungry look before his lips were on hers, the taste of tobacco and whiskey flooding her mouth and making her dizzy. The robe fell around her feet as he lifted her, legs locked around his solid waist, and they were moving and she didn't know where but it didn't matter. Nothing else mattered other than his taste, his touch, his breath and his voice.

Her world flipped, or maybe it was just she— _definitely_ was, as her back hit what she assumed was a mattress: bouncy, plush, soft against her skin. She was still licking him off her lips when she saw him pull his shirt over his head. He was muscular, sturdy, and the tattoo sleeve covered one of his pectorals and part of his neck. The rest of his reddish-tanned skin was riddled with scars and bruises, much like hers. A dusting of light hairs spread across his chest and narrowed into a trail disappearing into his waistband. She felt her heart race as she heard the metallic clink of his belt being unbuckled, saw him undo his pants. The smirk on his face said he knew what it did to her.

But then, he stopped. The heavy momentum had come to a screeching halt. There was a thick silence between them, one she wanted to tear through to get to him, but the look of uncertainty made that impossible. Did he not want her? And then he spoke:

“You sure you want this, Shepard?” he asked, voice low, traces of gentleness in its grit.

She sighed. Shepard was naked and panting on his bed, legs spread for him and he really had to ask? Yes, should have been the answer, but desire and animalistic lust was fogging up her mind. She could thank him for his consideration later.

“Yes, Zaeed. Now, fuck me already.”

From that moment on, there was not an inch of skin his hands and lips did not explore; he devoured her like the finest of desserts, lapped at her like a brush to a canvas and before long she was trembling and screaming, fire running through her blood, thighs clenched around his head and toes curling in ecstasy. When he surfaced from his servicing, he uttered something about protection. She merely shook her head, told him not to worry, that things were taken care of on her end, and he'd passed the physical Dr. Chakwas had given them after collecting the Reaper IFF.

“Do you still want to do this?” she asked. The mood had cooled down significantly; talking about protection and safety was never exactly sexy—though necessary as it was.

Zaeed was lying on his side, mirroring her, when he trailed a hand up her arm, lips coming in for another kiss.

“You're goddamn right I do,” he whispered.

A curious hand slid down his chest, chasing the narrow path of hairs down his abdomen, below his navel and into the thicket around the base of his erection. As far as human males went, Zaeed was pretty unremarkable: not large, not small, uncut, girthier than he was long.

“Done staring, sweetheart?”

He wanted a reaction and all he'd get was the feeling of her hands around him. And, oh, her fingers barely touched and the idea of him slipping into her made her mouth water. With a firm shove to his shoulder, Zaeed was on his back looking up at her as she slung a leg over him, straddling him. By the feel of him, he wanted her just as badly.

A few adjustments and he was sliding into her with ease, stretching her, filling her until her mind could only think of how well they fit together. Hands grabbed at her backside again. _An ass man,_ she noted. Her wide hips soon found a rhythm, one that earned her ragged breaths from him and made her see stars with every movement, especially when he joined in with upward motions of his own. His mouth found the pebbled tips of her breasts, her hands tugged at his hair, the room filled with staggered panting and moans and carnal slaps of flesh against flesh. He was good. He felt so fucking good. Every spot of hers... it was as if he knew it by instinct, as if he'd studied her before and now she was coming apart in his arms, whimpering his name, begging him for that sweet release she so craved. A large hand threaded through her short black locks.

“Come for me,” he muttered against her neck. “Let go for me, sweetheart.”

And then she shattered, world splintering into a million pieces: Cerberus, her death, the Reapers, the suicide mission... None of it mattered anymore. None of it existed in this blank plane of pleasure. There was just Shepard, Zaeed, and this bed. His body stiffened beneath her, and she could hear him utter a couple of swear words in her ear as he pulsated inside of her.

“Holy shit,” she laughed, leaning her forehead against his chest.

Zaeed merely hummed, but his lips were curled in a satisfied smirk.

Then it hit her:

She'd just slept with Zaeed. And Zaeed... he liked his space. He was a talker, but he'd rather keep to himself. Was she intruding on him? Another odd question to wonder while naked and still clamped around him. On the Normandy, it wouldn't have been a big deal—her ship, her rules. But in his personal hotel room? She slid off him and headed to the bathroom to clean up and pee, not that a UTI was something to worry about while facing almost certain death. She headed back into the bedroom with her clothes, sliding her panties back on.

“What are you doing?” he asked. He was burrowed under the fluffy white comforter. Not exactly something she associated with Zaeed Massani.

“What's it look like?”

“Stop that and come here,” he mumbled and lifted the covers in front of him. When Shepard trudged over and sat at the edge, she felt strong arms pull her in and she let out a surprised squeak. If she wanted to, she could break him easily thanks to her new cybernetic implants. But to feel that warm chest against her back, his breath against the nape of her neck, an arm wrapped around her waist... It was wonderful and something she hadn't known she needed.

“I wouldn't have taken you for a cuddler.”

Zaeed chuckled into her hair.

“Even I've got a soft side. I'm glad to see you do, too.” He gave her ass a playful slap.

“Ha! Don't push it, Massani.”

“Yeah, yeah...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I based his affinity for art based on the events of ME3's Citadel DLC party and silly headcanons of mine. I think he's insightful and though he isn't an expert, he knows what he likes.


End file.
